The Detective and His Doctor
by illuminatachime
Summary: John comes home to a disastrous situation involving dress-up and a Sherlock in his closet. Fluff.


The Detective and His Doctor

John closed the door to the apartment, almost immediately tripping over a shoe. He accidentally cursed, stumbling and regaining his balance. "Sherlock," he muttered, kicking the shoe out of his way. He looked about the room for his friend, but it appeared that Sherlock wasn't present.

Telling himself not to worry just yet, John clambered into the next room. Absent as it was of Sherlock's awful screeching violin, John noted that there was a steaming cup of coffee on the desk.

_Coffee? Sherlock doesn't even _like _coffee,_ John pondered. _What is he up to, now?_

"Sherlock?" he called, hearing his voice carry through the flat. "Are you here?"

There was a collective crash from the next room, John's bedroom, and the sound echoed down the hall. Making his way towards the closed door to his bedroom, John slipped on another article of clothing – long, black dress pants – and groaned. If this was one of those times that Sherlock undressed himself randomly because he felt too _trapped,_ John did _not _want to find Sherlock, in all his nudity, _again._

He knocked on his own door, listening intently. There was a catching of breath, as if the person in the room didn't want to be heard, and a scuttling noise that signified that he did not want to be _found._ John turned the knob, pushing the door open and stepping over another of Sherlock's shoes. _You are the weirdest person I have ever met,_ John thought as his eyes found Sherlock's black dress shirt, suit jacket, and scarf strewn carelessly about the room.

"Sherlock?" he said softly, scanning his bedroom for the splash of lustrous dark curls and sharp cheekbones that was Sherlock's head. His gaze zeroed in on his closet, which looked to have been opened and quickly shut. John noticed that a pile of his medical books had been knocked over – probably what caused the crashing noise – and walked gingerly towards his closet, recognizing a few items from his own wardrobe were thrown around as well.

The closet doors were slightly open, and John peered into the crack. He heard faint breathing. He glanced upward, finding that a piercing blue eye stared back at him, unblinking.

"Gah!" he ejaculated, flinching enough that he propelled himself backward, arms flailing around in a desperate attempt to regain his balance. Once he did so, he let out a chastising "Sherlock!"

"What are you doing? Get out of there," he reprimanded, placing his hands on the little brass knobs the door bore. Sherlock grabbed the doors, keeping them in place.

"Hello, John," he greeted absent-mindedly.

"Hello? You're in my closet with no clothes on and all you have to say is _'hello'_?" John's voice raised an octave as he cast his eyes upwards, towards the heavens. Sherlock seemed to realize his whereabouts, and John wondered if he was even really conscious.

"Why are you in my closet, Sherlock?" John asked, exasperated.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, flustered. It was obvious to John he was lying, but John was too tired to pursue that.

"Sherlock," he began, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "Come out of the closet."

"Excuse me? What are you suggesting?" was Sherlock's snappy retort.

"W-what?" John asked, his brain becoming muddled with confusion. "I'm not suggesting anything. Just get out of my closet."

"No."

"No? It's my _closet_, Sherlock! Don't you find the fact that you are rummaging around my room and hiding in my closet a little, oh, _strange?_"

"Strange, maybe," was Sherlock's reply. "But that doesn't mean you should throw a temper tantrum over it."

"_Temper tantrum?"_ John repeated incredulously. "You are _barking mad._"

"Possibly," Sherlock returned.

John lost his patience and grabbed the doors, catching Sherlock unawares, and threw the closet doors wide open…revealing Sherlock, standing amongst the hung-up jumpers and trousers, looking remarkably guilty and almost stark naked, save for his underwear, thank god.

John was stunned into speechlessness, and Sherlock took the opportunity to fix his friend with a determined look. "If you require an explanation, I was contemplating…a change…of style," he said unsurely. "I was wondering if your pants and jumpers were comfortable, seeing as you seem to only wear their type of apparel."

"Well, I find them quite comfortable," John countered for the sake of it, rubbing an exhausted hand against his brow.

"I don't," Sherlock said, proudly lifting his chin. A slight blush colored his gaunt face, and John realized he was trying to lie again.

"What are you _really _up to, Sherlock?" he asked tiredly. He caught Sherlock's eyes and held the stare, willing Sherlock to tell him the truth. "Is it embarrassing for you?" he added as Sherlock's flush deepened.

"I…" Sherlock began, but trailed off. For once, the great consulting detective was at a loss for words, and John didn't pretend that he wasn't aware of the fact.

Sherlock decided that it was best that carried out his intentions. Therefore he strode, slowly but deliberately, out of the closet and placed his arms around John's neck.

"Sherlock," John said, a blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. "What are you doing?"

"I'm deducing you," Sherlock replied, puzzled that John would ask such a stupid question. He frowned.

John blushed hugely, standing there for a moment with eyes as wide and round as one of Mrs. Hudson's tea saucers. Then, he chuckled, looking away from Sherlock's serious, slightly confused face. Ignoring the frustrated noises of protest that Sherlock made, John wrestled with the taller man until he finally, forcibly, detached Sherlock's arms from around his neck. "I think you mean _se_ducing, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed and struggled with John, trying to get his arms around the other man once more, but to no avail. He scowled and flushed, rejected, and looked every bit like an angry kitty. Sherlock's bright blue eyes glowed with agitation, and he gave up his attempts to capture the doctor as he said, "Fine, go on then. I won't be needing you." He let his arms fall reluctantly to his sides, turning away from the doctor.

"You're mad?" John tried not to smile, covering his mouth with his hand. _What, Sherlock, did I hurt your feelings?_ He realized that this might be the first time Sherlock had ever come on to a person, much less flirted with someone.

"Laugh all you want," Sherlock muttered in response to John's spoken question, bending over to pick up his shirt. "I don't care." He adorned his shirt, putting up the collar and buttoning it up.

"But you do," John mused, trailing behind Sherlock as the detective collected his clothes, tossing aside the ones that belonged to John. John didn't miss the fond look that Sherlock gave a particular argyle sweater. He picked the sweater up and held it out to his friend's back.

"Do you want this?" He murmured, feeling strangely content in the awkward situation. "You may take it, if you like it."

"I don't want your pathetic, distasteful sweater," Sherlock spat at him after taking a glance at the piece of fabric. He retreated from John, taking a few more steps towards the wall.

John smirked uncharacteristically, still holding out the woolen shirt. He watched Sherlock for a moment, then shrugged. He pulled the jumper back slightly, letting his hand fall just out of Sherlock's reach, because he wasn't uncertain that Sherlock would make a grab for it. "I suppose if you don't want it, or more so, if you think it's _distasteful_, I should throw it out," he said, feigning hurt. Sherlock turned his head slightly, just enough that he could glance at his friend. John donned a whipped-puppy look, flashing a scorned look at Sherlock through his dark-blond lashes.

Sherlock growled and snatched the sweater from John's hands so fast that John didn't even have time to flinch. John stared, aghast, as Sherlock clutched the sweater to his chest, turning pink but meeting John's eyes.

"_I like it, _okay?" He snapped, bare chest matching the redness of his face. "It smells like you. I won't allow you to throw it out."

John was baffled, and he hesitated before speaking. "You…like it, because it…smells like me?"

"Yes," Sherlock admitted again, somewhat reluctantly. "Is that so wrong?"

"No, actually," John said after another alarmed pause. "I suppose it's not."

"You suppose?" Sherlock attacked, snarling and turning away once more. "Well, _I_ suppose you can _leave._"

John stared at the back of Sherlock's head, watching the black tresses bounce and settle. He inadvertently found himself eyeing the small of Sherlock's back; tried not to appreciate the lean muscles that jumped every time Sherlock made even a small movement.

"So I _did_ hurt your feelings," John concluded. Sherlock faced him again in anger, striding towards John until they were nose to nose.

"Feelings? I don't have _feelings._" He made a revolted face that would be hilarious in practically any other situation than this, John noted (he also remembered that Sherlock had made this face once before, when John had asked him about his _friends_).

Sherlock continued, his inner angry kitty coming out. "And I _certainly_ did not get any feelings hurt. I don't _care._" He turned away yet again, studying the wall before him. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," he murmured to himself.

John smiled, suddenly overwhelmed with adoration for Sherlock, and noticed that his sweater was still gripped tight in Sherlock's right hand. He snuck up behind Sherlock, taking hold of his right wrist, and pulled the taller man backwards.

Sherlock gracefully arched backwards, his hair airborne once more, looking as if it was fiercely trying to fly away from Sherlock's head; however, since it was growing _from _Sherlock's head, its attachment stayed its motion. Inertia, John figured, was the reason for that. He couldn't quite remember his secondary schooling too well.

Sherlock turned around before he could lean any further, saving himself from more embarrassment if he were to lose his footing and fall on his arse. "What," he asked, although it sounded nothing like a question. He fastened John with a stern glare, pallor somewhat restored now that most of his flush had faded away, cheekbones looking as if they could cut someone, against the pale.

John grinned up at him, ignoring the sulky look that was being cast straight at him. "Sherlock," he said simply, trying not to laugh or give away his giddiness. How adorable was it that Sherlock had attempted seduction?

John stood on his tiptoes as Sherlock involuntarily yet simultaneously leaned forward and downward…and their lips met, warm and firm, smooth and reassuring. John's hands snaked up around Sherlock's neck to pull him further down as John returned his heels to the floor; Sherlock's arms wrapped around John, in a triumphant and final embrace.

They lingered in that position for a while, exploring each other's mouths and bodies. It was only when Sherlock became too grabby with his hands that John disconnected himself again; not far enough to be out of reach, but far enough that permitted no more kissing for the time being.

The fondness and tenderness in their expressions as they looked into each other's eyes surpassed that of any relationship that had ever existed (at least that's how Sherlock and John would've felt about it). Sherlock reached forward, with the hand that wasn't holding John's jumper, and grabbed the doctor's hand. He studied it for a moment, tracing lines and scars that were undoubtedly from the war.

"Sherlock?" John said, capturing the detective's gaze easily.

"Yes?" Sherlock's head snapped up, like a soldier at attention. John smiled at that, trying not to laugh as he pictured Sherlock in a cadet's uniform, saluting him. He knew very well that Sherlock could not take orders, and would do awfully if he were given a job in the army.

Realizing that he needed to say something, John squeezed his companion's hand happily. He looked meaningfully into Sherlock's eyes, and provided his statement:

"I love you."


End file.
